


What You Wouldn't Expect

by coolasdicks



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Blood, Gen, M/M, Robbery, Violence, break in, implied elements of suicide, mentions of hospital, yeah michael gets his ass beat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:39:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolasdicks/pseuds/coolasdicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:</p>
<p>"And another prompt for you... AHOT6: A little under the weather, Michael stays home from work. After the guys leave, a group of thugs break into the house. When they discover Michael, they proceed to beat him and leave him bound and gagged in a closet with a makeshift noose around his neck. With his injuries and bindings, it takes everything Michael has not to keel over and hang himself. The guys come back and realize the house has been ransacked. Cue panic for Michael; happy ending needed. <3"</p>
<p>and </p>
<p>"michael on the verge of death and the guys reactions to it"</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Wouldn't Expect

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I completely wreck this prompt. Probably too violent for what you two wanted, but damn did I have fun writing it! Also, I probably wouldn’t have finished/posted this without Chu’s encouragement. I cannot believe I got so lucky to be friends with her.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’m sick _again_?”

“Apparently so,” Geoff said in a disproving voice. Michael cut him a dirty look, sipping the water glass Ryan handed him. He was slouched on the bed, half in Ryan’s lap, while Geoff loomed over the two of them from the side of the bed.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Michael growled hoarsely. “I wasn’t even patient zero this time.”

“No, he’s right,” Ryan said sympathetically. “My bad.”

Michael sniffed. “I guess this is payback for that one Minecraft Monopoly fiasco, huh?”

Ryan laughed. “We’re even now,” he promised with a swift kiss to the redhead’s fever-hot forehead. He frowned. “He’s hot as hell, Geoff.”

“You’re not really gonna make me go to _work_ today, are you, Geoff?” Michael said with a quivering lower lip, turning large, watery red eyes onto the tattooed man. Geoff’s annoyed expression faltered.

“Since when are you bitching about vacation days?” he griped, holding a hand to Michael’s head. His frown deepened. “Goddammit. I guess it’s going to be a quiet day in the office, Ryan.”

Michael grinned weakly, leaning into the blessed coolness of Geoff’s palm and Geoff responded by running it through his damp hair as a small, nonverbal comfort. “So I get a sick day?”

“Considering you haven’t used a single one of your sick days,” Ryan said, “I think it’s fair.”

Geoff’s eyes softened as he looked at his boyfriend. Michael knew what he looked like, having caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror just minutes ago, and he made quite an ill picture: his brow was beaded with perspiration, eyes ringed red, and skin grayed with a sickly pallor. The first sound he’d made that morning had been a death rattle born from a wrecked throat.

Michael felt no shame in milking it.

“Can you go get me the bottle of Nyquil?” he asked pathetically, voice nothing but an empty wheeze. He leaned against Geoff’s midsection, too sapped of energy to even get off the bed. “My voice is fucking going, too. I’m gonna be useless.”

“If you promise to change the sheets at the end of it day, I’ll get you some Nyquil,” Geoff grumbled before bending to Michael’s will and disappearing into the bathroom.

“You’re such a shit,” Ryan whispered into Michael’s ear, laughing quietly. “Do you really feel that bad?”

Michael flashed the blond a cheeky grin. “I do, but Geoff has chewed me out like seven times for ‘getting sick so much’. I think I deserve one guilt-trip.”

“I’ll allow it,” Ryan snickered, pecking him on the cheek and climbing off the bed. He was still half-naked, wearing only his plaid boxers. Michael lazily watched him dress for the day, enjoying the view.

When Geoff returned, he handed him a… very small cup of Nyquil. Michael gave him a withering glare, took the offered drug, and swallowed it in one gulp. Geoff chuckled and took the empty cup.

“Alright, so you’re sure you’re not up for work today?” Geoff asked desperately.

“What’s wrong, Geoff-y, you gonna miss me?” Michael teased.

Geoff’s expression soured. Without answering, he looked at Ryan, who had just pulled on his t-shirt. “Ready? I think Jack’s started the car already.”

“At least say goodbye to me!” Michael called in agitation as Geoff disappeared from the room. “And you didn’t even bring me enough Nyquil to pass out!”

Ryan patted Michael consolingly on the head. “Don’t forget to lock the front door after we leave. Bye, Michael,” he said sweetly, giving Michael a nice farewell with another peck on the cheek. Michael was then left alone in the bedroom.

The three others popped their heads in to say a hasty goodbye. They didn’t stay long, but Michael appreciated the sentiment.

He flopped back onto the bed when Gavin left the room. His head spun with the start of a fever-born headache. After smothering a few coughing fits into his personal pillow, he could hear the car leaving the driveway.

The pain in his throat kept him from falling back asleep. Only ten minutes after their departure, Michael dragged his sorry ass from the bed and into the bathroom.

“Yep,” he said aloud, making a face at the mirror. “Just as gross as I remembered.”

He spend a few minutes trying to pat down the bedhead before brushing his teeth to get rid of the phlegmy taste on his tongue. He drowned his tastebuds in a few mouthfuls of the Nyquil bottle. Not bothering with a shower, he pulled on a dirty pair of jeans that may or may not have been his and the loosest shirt he could find… and five seconds later, he gave up trying to be productive and crawled back into bed.

There was still no chance of a restful sleep, but he dozed. Behind closed eyes, surface dreams danced and filled his head with static.

It was enough white noise to block out the sound of the front door opening, far too early to be any one of the boys. It creaked open quietly, and it was the sound of the hinges whining in the empty house that roused Michael from his clammy, hazy sleep.

Confused, he blinked blearily at the clock. It had been fifteen minutes since they’d left.

Pushing himself up, Michael hoarsely called, “You guys forget somethin’?”

There was no answer. Michael groaned and rolled out of bed, staggering to the door and flinging it open. He rubbed his eyes against the glare of sunshine that assaulted his eyes. “Yo, assholes –”

A loud bang exploded next to his right ear. Warbled ringing pounded through his head, wrecking his equilibrium. Something about the shock and sickness combining made his knees just collapse underneath him, and he fell in a heap against the wall, clutching at his head.

“’Arry!” an unfamiliar, squeaky voice yelled. “’Arry, there’s someone here!”

“ _What_?” screamed another, more articulated voice. “You said you saw them _leave_.”

“I did!” the first man squealed. A dull thump was the precursor to a higher-pitched, fear-filled shriek. “I did, I pr’mise! The car – it’s gone from the driveway, ‘arry!”

“Then how do you explain _him_?” the other man demanded in a low hiss.

Michael peeled open his stinging eyes. His vision shook and rattled like a vibration had been set against his temples. His elbow and hip ached from hitting the wall, but nothing could beat the throbbing of his head. The right side of his face felt as if it had gone numb. Any sound from that side was muted. Michael nearly heaved up last night’s dinner right there in the hallway.

A rough pair of hands grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him up. He was slammed against the wall, one of the hands slipping around his neck and squeezing. Michael fought to memorize the stranger’s features through the fog in his mind.

He was nothing more than average: a little taller than Michael, a little heavier. Brown hair and brown eyes. Nothing physical about the man agreed with the gun he was holding in one hand, the barrel of which pointed up near Michael’s face. Fear seemed to ice over Michael’s brain. He could barely breathe.

His partner stood just inches behind him. He was a little more outstanding. Small, twitchy, and reeking of cleaning products, his bulging eyes and skinny neck gave him the appearance of a drug addict. He couldn’t seem to stop moving, shifting anxiously from foot to foot and peering over his partner’s shoulder.

Michael held up his shaking hands. “If what you want is money,” Michael said thickly through the congestion in his nose, “you can have it. My wallet is on the kitchen counter. T-Take whatever, I don’t care.”

The man holding him didn’t move a muscle, but his partner suddenly start _wailing_ in hysterics, like Michael had just finished a comedy routine. It sent chills up Michael’s spine.

“Hear that, ‘Arry?” he yelled, too loud and too obnoxious. “He don’t care!”

Somehow, his partner didn’t seem bothered by it. He nodded along pensively, scanning Michael up and down. Apparently he didn’t deem him a threat; his gun fell to aim somewhere off to the side. His hand left Michael’s neck and instead buried itself in his hair.

A scream was extracted from his lungs with calculated effort when the hand tightened into a fist and _yanked_. Michael’s entire face tightened with the pull, vocal cords unable to contain his pain. It was the highest-pitched scream Michael had ever produced, but he could barely hear it through his busted eardrum.

His head was drawn forward before being slammed against the wall behind him. Stars burst into his vision, head fogging over completely as a glaze developed over his vision. The pain vanished so fast it was dizzying and his hands – which had been weakly clutching at the man’s hand – fell away to hang limply at his sides.

“Get ‘im, ‘arry!” the shorter man screeched, fist pumping the air with a knobby, scabbed hand. He, Michael noticed dimly, wasn’t holding a weapon.

“Charlie, go to the kitchen and get this gentleman’s wallet,” the man ordered softly, releasing his hold on Michael’s hair. The man held him upright by placing a hand over his throat. Michael was sure there ought to be more pain than the light ache in his scalp. Heart jack-rabbiting in his throat, he tried to swallow down the rising bile.

‘Charlie’ ran like his life was on the line. Michael looked back at the man in front of him – the dangerous one, he realized – and tried to focus on breathing.

“Look, just take the money and go,” Michael pleaded, voice breaking. He could only imagine the scene playing out: Geoff, who so often forgot _everything_ , coming back for his sunglasses or coffee or book and startling one of the two – startling the man with the _gun_. An icy grip strangled Michael’s heart, and for a moment he thought it had stopped beating.

“We plan to,” the man said to him, meeting Michael’s eyes, and for the first time Michael understood why this man was the one in charge.

Something lurked within those pupils. Instead of blackness, there was an endless pit of rage and loathing, reserved for who or what, Michael didn’t know. But under the stare of this man, his fight or flight instincts abruptly punched him in the gut.

And with nowhere to flee, Michael was left with a very, very dumb choice.

Fear fueled him. He pushed away from the man with soulless eyes, movements sluggish but just strong enough to break free of his hold. Michael fell to the floor, weakened by sickness and probably a concussion, but instincts told him it was either his survival or theirs. He tackled ‘Arry’s’ legs, a satisfying pop felt more than heart. Both him and Michael went crashing to the floor. Arry’s – whose name was most likely Harry – back collided with the wall.

The gun clattered to the wood floor. Michael leapt after it, fingers scraping against the handle, before it was ripped from him, the trigger pulled between them, and –

– the bullet fired into his leg.

Michael’s throat burned with the force of his scream. White hot bursts of agony raced up his thigh and drowned his brain in nothing but pain, wiping out everything but the scalding hole in his leg. Distantly, he knew it was nowhere vital and had missed the bone, but he blew out his lungs as if a death sentence had just been placed upon him. His hands slicked with blood as he struggled to cover the innocently small hole in his jeans – Ryan’s jeans, maybe – and his vision grayed around the edges.

He was dimly aware of something clocking him over the head and – really, passing out was a blessing. With relief, he sunk into unconsciousness.

\---

Michael had a fairly good nose on him. Perhaps it was God’s way of making up for his atrocious eyesight, but he could easily identify certain scents around his home. Gavin’s gummy hairgel, Geoff’s girly cologne, even Ray’s vanilla deodorant were all things Michael associated with home – with comfort.

He couldn’t smell a hint of familiarity where he was now. He was aware of one sensation and one sensation only – an extremely scratchy fabric rubbing against his nose. Michael thought _maybe_ his head was propped up against something, but he couldn’t be sure.

It was probably a dream. _An uncomfortable one, for sure_ , Michael thought, wishing he could move. He couldn’t move his limbs – in fact, Michael was pretty sure his limbs didn’t exist anymore. That was fine. He didn’t need them.

What he needed was to be back home, where his nose could work. He felt it like an ache in his bones: the need for a hug. Michael wasn’t a touchy person by nature, but something deep in his gut had splintered. Upset was millimeters away in his mind, held at bay only by the thin lining of Michael’s subconscious.

Specifically, Michael wanted a Jack hug. God, they were so _warm_. Jack was a big man – not even fat, just large – and could encompass any one of the boys in a bear-hug that would sometimes last for days. He was always so warm, too, and Jack’s heart beat hard enough for it to be felt in every corner of Michael’s soul.

Finally, Michael realized he was very cold.

His skin rose with goosebumps, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Yes – his body was still with him. Just numb.

His nose itched again. Michael scrunched up his face trying to dispel it. A layer of crust that ran from his right temple to his chin crackled and partially flaked off. Michael could feel whatever the hell it was fall between his face and – oh. Something was covering his face?

A tickle at the back of Michael’s mind encouraged his eyes to open. There was nothing but blackness and a dull ache behind each socket. The right one’s lashes were stuck together by something sticky.

A groan crawled out of his mouth. It didn’t sound anything like him; weak and pitiful, the noise was barely recognizable as Michael’s voice. That sound shocked him more than anything else, and he jolted.

Kneeling? He was kneeling… maybe. He certainly wasn’t standing, that was for sure. Michael couldn’t even feel his legs. Hell – he couldn’t feel anything. Only select parts of his brain had stirred to consciousness, apparently, and sensory nerves hadn’t been included.

There was definitely something over his head. It was breathable, though not without trapping his warm breath, and just below the end of the bag, something thick and rough was roped around his neck like an oversized necklace.

It took Michael a long time to gather the strength to move his head. His neck barely supported him. He was right; he’d been propped against something cool and flat. The left side of his body was still pressed against it, and if Michael had to guess, the chill of whatever object he was leaning against was also numbing his skin.

It was probably a good thing. The strong, tangy taste of blood coated his tongue and slicked down his ragged throat. There was something keeping his teeth separated, something _in his mouth._ He tried to wheeze out a silent cough. His sluggish heartrate jumped; something was constricting his neck with the slightest of pressure against his windpipe along with gagging his mouth.

_Nothing is working_.

Panic was quick to take hold. Michael peeled his other eye open and lolled his head around. Nothing but blackness stared back at him, and he was nearly positive that a bag had been fit over his head. His memory supplied him with nothing but a long, empty blank between now and…

He shook his head. Brains were weird. Michael wasn’t going to get anywhere with that. The top of his priorities was figuring out where he was.

At first, he chalked up his immobility to a mental paralysis, but even when his brain came fully online, he still could not move his arms. Wriggling around, he gathered that they were bound together at the wrist by thick ropes. His legs were in a similar predicament, ankles unable to separate as well.

His knees dug into the soft floor underneath him. _Carpet, then,_ Michael thought, trying to breathe through the rising hysteria – and the rope in his mouth. He moved his tongue against the harsh, uneven surface. It wasn’t thick enough to choke him, but it was enough to keep him from closing his mouth to stop the blood from dipping down his chin. He must’ve bit his tongue or split a lip.

Michael struggled to get his hands under his feet so he at least could take the bag off his head, but when he tried to bend his legs, he found that one leg was unresponsive. He could barely feel his fingers curling, but to have an entire limb not working…

Bile rose in Michael’s throat. It took everything he had to swallow it down. By now, he was starting to accept that he wasn’t going to get out of this without help, and being found after throwing up all over himself was not how Michael wanted to picture his grand rescue.

“He-help,” Michael whispered through a mangled throat and bloodied lips. The single word exhausted him and he could barely even hear it.

A memory pushed impatiently at his border. Michael chased after it, eager to learn why he was currently bound and gagged in a mystery hole.

The memory served him nothing – just a faint flash of him waking up sick in bed, which honestly could’ve been one of any twelve times in the past year. He deflated slightly, head beginning to pound with the vestiges of a concussion-produced headache.

As soon as the headache set in, a myriad of other pains slammed into Michael’s awareness.

Nothing but a whimper escaped the gag, but everything inside his skull was thrown into a sudden chaos. His leg, though still motionless, was on _fire_ , and oh fuck – he might’ve been scalped. His nose felt swollen and he couldn’t breathe through it, having to suck in air through the gag.

His ribs protested each breath. It felt as if something was wedged between the bones and poking into his soft insides. Michael frantically tried to force his mind to focus on something else, something other than the pain.

But in a completely silent and dark enclosed space, there was little to think about.

Michael started to droop forward after what he suspected was hours. His body was taxed far beyond its breaking point, muscles so strained and torn that he couldn’t keep his torso straight. The rope around his neck tightened and the shock of his air cutting off made Michael jerk back.

A sudden memory struck him and replayed in his mind like a movie:

_“Lookie there, ‘Arry,” Charlie coos, slipping a few digits between the noose and Michael’s neck. They fit with room to spare. “Told you it was the right amount o’ rope.”_

_His accomplice doesn’t reply, eyes concentrating on the exposed skin of Michael’s chest. The shirt had been ripped away hours before, but no longer is his chest bare. Long, shallow cuts decorate the natural dips and curves of Michael’s torso, following the subtle definition of his muscle. Each rib is outlined in thin red lines that joined a fairly deep slice that run from the redhead’s collarbone to the bottom of his sternum. It’s a macabre piece of art, one that Harry is appreciating even now, after the blood has dried._

_Finally Harry gets to his feet and inspects the noose. He smiles and Michael knows he’s proud of his idea._

_“Yer so smart, ‘Arry,” Charlie says with sickening sincerity. He looks at Harry with nothing short of reverence and devout love._

_“I only wish we could see if he makes it through the day,” Harry replies, sighing with longing before opening the hall closet door_.

\---

Geoff hated missing one employee.

Even before he was in a relationship with them, it was frustrating to have an empty chair in the office all day. Gavin sometimes went in and out from his office to the AH one, but he liked to linger and chat. That didn’t bother Geoff much. And the damned convention trips sucked, but at least he knew they weren’t alone.

There as something about leaving one – and one alone – behind that made Geoff _deeply_ unnerved.

The day dragged like gum over gravel from the moment he left the house. He was annoyed at Michael for having such a fucking dumb immune system, and he was even more annoyed that he was pushing for a sick day. It wasn’t crunch time, so it wasn’t a horrible loss, but the fucker had to rub it in that his empty chair would be a gaping hole.

No one talked to Geoff most of the day. They knew he was pissy. Geoff was glad he was ignored. It gave him more time to chew over all the things he could say to Michael when he got home.

_Fucker, no more sick days. It sucks without you._

_If you get sick again, I’ll dick punch you. After getting you some Nyquil._

_Stop being gone_.

And finally – _finally_ – they got to go home. It was later than usual due to their missing limb – nearly six in the evening. He hoped Michael was asleep when they got home. Then Geoff wouldn’t have the chance to spill his gooey word vomit all over the younger and embarrass himself.

They packed up quietly. The only words exchanged were the muted conversation between Gavin and Ray. Both lads looked tired from the long workday, the lines of stress beginning to appear in the corner of their eyes. Geoff opened the door for them before following.

“We’re good on tissues, right?” Geoff asked Jack as they drove by the Walgreens. Jack furrowed his brow in thought.

“I just bought a four pack,” he said, nodding.

Geoff pulled into the driveway minutes later and parked. The other Hunters were slow to get out of the car and even slower to follow Geoff up the steps. Pulling out his keychain, Geoff fit the house key into the lock and turned it.

There was no click.

Geoff frowned. No one else noticed it. Michael must’ve forgotten to lock up after them. Not wanting to make a big deal out of nothing, he just pushed the door open and flicked on the entrance light.

“Oh… my god.”

Gavin’s astonished whisper was the only thing to break the deafening silence. Before them lay a scene of utter disaster. The coffee table in front of the couch was broken, shattered glass scattered throughout the room. The Xboxes that had been under the TV were gone, along with a large portion of the games. Anything electronic had vanished, aside from the TV, which was bolted into the wall.

Someone must’ve been angry that they couldn’t get it down; in the middle of the screen, a large circular fracture spider-webbed across the glass. There was blood trapped under the shards and some of the bigger slivers were missing.

Numb, Geoff stepped further into the house. It was more or less the same: anything worth a dime and had been taken.

Geoff’s stomach twisted.

“Michael?” he called with a crack in his voice. He ran to the bedroom and slid on something in the hallway. His elbow went through the wall, but when he got to his feet and looked around, it was something _else_ that made his heart stop.

A few fingerprints of blood were smeared in random patterns. There was a cantaloupe-sized dent in the wall at Geoff’s chin level and a small hole in their bedroom door. A small puddle of blood was now swallowing up the lower portion of Geoff’s pants leg, where he’d fallen in it.

“Geoff?” Jack said from behind him, out of breath. “Are you okay?”

“Michael!” Geoff yelled, searching around the bedroom as if Michael was a small dog hiding. He looked under the bed and under the bathroom cabinets. He ignored Jack’s quickly paling face and pushed past him.

He ran to the kitchen, where Gavin already had a head-start on him; the Brit was kneeling by the table and peering under it. He made eye contact with Geoff the moment the tattooed man stepping in the room and the pit in Geoff’s stomach grew deeper.

Two other voices joined his, calling out the redhead’s name. Each time it went unanswered, the search seemed to grow more frantic. They stopped checking in unrealistic areas and instead fearfully searched the floors, hoping with very fiber of their being that they wouldn’t stumble upon Michael’s dead body.

Ryan called the police and within minutes there were at least seven cop cars in the street.

“Michael!” Geoff shouted, voice barely a croak. “Michael, please!”

He walked aimlessly around the backyard, slowly convincing himself that Michael was still around here _somewhere_. The police woman that was put in charge of ‘guarding the manic boyfriend’ (one of many) stood on the porch and watched him sadly.

Their statements to the police were more or less the same. They’d come home to all of their shit stolen, an empty house, and a missing boyfriend. The most answers the cops could give them was that it looked like there had been a struggle.

They were assured, however, that there wasn’t enough blood for anyone to be dead, which, in Geoff’s opinion wasn’t much of a comfort. Whoever had broken in could’ve easily taken Michael elsewhere and killed him.

The evening light darkened until the streetlights came on and the stars appeared. The cops lingered, but started to spread into the neighbor. Geoff overheard them saying that what they were searching for wasn’t a missing person anymore, but most likely a body if the violence of the scene was any indication.

When only three cops were left in the house, Jack made coffee. Fucking _coffee_.

“At least the coffee maker wasn’t stolen,” one of the cops offered before Ryan aimed a fist at his jaw.

After that particular cop was escorted to the search and rescue group, the five men were left alone in the kitchen while two cops continued to investigate the living room, where the majority of the action seemed to have taken place.

No one spoke. The only noise was Ray’s coffee mug, held by trembling hands, knocking against the table and a tapping from somewhere in the house. Geoff hated knowing there were strangers sifting through his personal belongs (or what was left of them) but he hated not knowing where Michael was – or if Michael was even _alive_ – far more.

If Michael was alive.

_If_.

What a fucking nightmare.

\---

Michael dreamt that they were filming a video.

He’d never played the game but it didn’t matter. He was having a blast because no one else knew what the hell they were doing either. It turned into a simple matter of fucking each other over, something that their audience always appreciated in a Let’s Play.

“Michael!” Geoff kept yelling at him. He banged his fist on the table for the seventh time, and it seemed to shake the whole room.

Michael had no idea why Geoff was growing so angry with him. He’d done nothing to the older man – Michael was fucking out of the game, for God’s sake! He tried to reply, but there was something in his mouth. Uncaring, he shrugged and picked up his controller as a new game started.

As they played, an empty silence filled the room. It clouded over the gamers’ heads and flooded into their ears. Michael shook his head, distantly unnerved by the pressure on his eardrums.

“Michael!” Geoff screamed again, voice cracking. The anguish saturating his tone was distressing and out of place. It made Michael’s skin crawl and he started to turn around to investigate, but his chair wouldn’t move. “Michael – Michael, _please_!”

_What, Geoff? What’s wrong?_

He could only think the words. Confusion swarmed Michael’s mind and something low in his chest stuttered. He dropped the controller. It didn’t make a sound when it hit the ground, and when Michael looked down, it had vanished. As he stared, the floor beneath his bare feet disappeared.

It wasn’t the most exciting end to a dream.

His battered brain struggled to understand. His memory was rugged and disjointed and his chest seized as he sucked in rust-flavored breaths, desperate for air. There didn’t seem to be enough of it.

 Voices were chatting somewhere in the house, muffled by the door.

Michael froze, heart jumping into his throat. His eyes watered at the thought of having to beg for his life again, teeth gnashing together. It was unlikely that the two men were back, but there was no way the boys were back already. He couldn’t have been asleep long.

Neck cramping, he lifted his head off the door he was leaning against. The slightest movement made his head spin, but the renewal of adrenaline was already beginning to fill his muscles with blood. His breathing was a loud croak in the quiet.

But then he heard something so familiar that, for a brief moment, he could do nothing but go speechless.

“Michael! Michael!” Geoff called, voice strained and dulled.

Heart leaping onto his tongue, Michael instantly tried to reply. His lips moved around the fraying rope that had been dragged across his mouth, ripping up the soft skin of his lips and tongue. No noise escaped, throat and vocal cords blown out hours before. His arms were out of the question, and he couldn’t feel his legs anymore.

Head, it was.

\---

Gavin roamed the house in circles.

He had a very precise order: kitchen, living room, family room, down the hallway to the bedrooms, and then circle back to the kitchen. It was the type of methodical pacing that he could tell made Geoff want to throw something at him.

The pacing helped him think. It also helped fuel his anger and kept him from collapsing in exhaustion. It had been a long day at work even before he’d come home to a missing boyfriend and burgled house. He’d been so prepared to fall into a heap on the couch and bury his head in someone’s lap and have his hair petted.

Instead Gavin was keeping a mental tally of what was missing and ruined. Looking at the damage, Gavin couldn’t help but feel that Michael had done something to anger the robbers (there had to be two to overpower Michael, Gavin thought) even further. Things were needlessly smashed and broken, trash strewn across the floor, and the legs kicked out from under tables. Only the expensive items had been taken. Everything else had just been the subject to a violent rampage.

What _really_ scared Gavin were the smears of blood on the walls. It wasn’t anything gruesome – in fact, it looked like someone had nicked a finger with a pair of scissors and ran them across the walls. It was no worse an injury than Gavin had done to himself.

Something about their presence, however, struck Gavin as sickening. There were too many of them. They were too dark. They were all sloping downwards, as if whoever it was had been reaching desperately for something to grab onto while being shoved to the floor.

Gavin shivered and turned away from the scene. He tracked back to the kitchen. The only one still sitting at the kitchen table was a red-eyed Ray.

“What’s happened?” Gavin asked dully. His question came out sounding nasally congested, despite not having shed a single tear. “Any news?”

“They think they found the abandoned van over on 9th,” Ray answered thickly.

“But…?”

“But no Michael,” Ray whispered.

Gavin nodded solemnly and, for the first time in hours, sat down at the table across from his boyfriend. He took Ray’s hand and squeezed it. There was a definite tremble in the brunette’s fingers, one that made Gavin’s heart seize.

“It’ll be fine,” Gavin whispered, to himself and to Ray. “If they found the van, he has to be nearby. Hell, Ray, maybe he just fled from the house and is waiting to come back until it’s safe.”

Ray’s gentle shake of the head spoke of his disbelief, but he didn’t say anything.

“We’ll be fine,” Gavin said firmly, thumping Ray’s hand on the table before letting go and combing through his hair.

A resentful silence overtook the kitchen once more. Gavin considered hunting down Geoff and the rest to get more answers – or perhaps, better conversation – but something troublesome kept him attached to his chair. He held his forehead as the minutes passed in suffocating anxiety.

The only sound was the quiet thud of footprints traveling down the hallway. Gavin looked up to see if it was someone returning from one of the bathrooms, but no one was there.

“After we find Michael,” Ray started shakily, drawing back Gavin’s attention. He cleared his throat and tried again. “After we find Michael, are we finally going to invest in a house alarm?”

Gavin barked out a startled, strained laugh, surprised. “Probably. It’d be daft not to.”

Ray nodded in agreement without even mocking Gavin’s British choice of words.

Another series of taps once again distracted Gavin. He looked over at the hallway, craning his neck to see around the corner, but even as the soft thuds continued, he could see no one. He shook his head, unnerved and disorientated.

“I think I’m losing it, Ray,” he whispered, laughing as if it were a joke. The words barely escaped his lips, and Ray took so long to respond that he thought perhaps the man hadn’t heard him at all.

“Once everything is over and done with, it’ll go back to normal,” Ray answered quietly, though his voice was morose.

“I can’t think,” Gavin confessed, running his hands through his rat’s nest hair. The wide eyes completed the crazed look. “I’m hearing things and god – it feels like my heart is trying to squeeze through two ribs.”

“Me too, Gav,” Ray said lowly, keeping his eyes anywhere but Gavin. “I keep hearing these damn knocks and I feel so fucking guilty just sitting in this house. I can’t believe this is real. I can’t believe that this happened.”

Gavin frowned, opened his mouth, and promptly snapped it closed.

_Thump… thump… thump…_

Gavin looked at Ray, whose face had drained pale. Ray stared back at him with wide eyes.

“Did you hear that?” Gavin asked with a quiver in his voice.

Without speaking, Ray shot up from his chair with legs like taunt rubber bands. Gavin pushed ahead of him, impatient and nervous, and they bumbled into the hallway.

There were no more noises. Ray smacked into his back when Gavin stopped dead. Both men strained to hear any other sounds. Gavin didn’t know what he was listening for, or if it had even come from this side of the house, but whatever it had been – his heart was pounding like a drum.

Standing in this hallway made Gavin sick to his stomach. Trailing his fingers around the bloody marks, he felt his way down the corridor, skimming over the pictures and light switches. He reached the hallway in which coats and shoes were kept.

The door rattled from someone hitting it from the inside and Ray shoved Gavin to the side before he ripped open the door.

Something that had been leaning against the door fell against Gavin’s legs, but behind that a rope had straightened, stopping its decent. It took a long moment for Gavin’s eyes to recognize what was resting against his legs, but the moment they did, he nearly lost his lunch right then and there.

At first glance, it was a shirtless, beaten man, but the all-too-familiar video game tattoos on his bruised arms made Gavin’s knees go weak. He dropped down to sit on the floor, light-headed and nauseated.

A t-shirt – Jack’s t-shirt, Gavin noted dimly – had been wrapped around his head, completely obscuring his face. His chest was cut up into goddamn ribbons. Gut leaden, Gavin slipped the knot over the back of his head and pulled it off, choking up at the sight revealed to him.

Underneath all the blood was the swollen, bruised face of Michael Jones.

\---

Gavin was staring at him.

His name was being repeated on holy prayer, and cold hands held his face firm. His skin must’ve been burning; that simple contact made him sigh in weak relief and lean into the touch. Gavin’s face was frozen on a horrified expression, one that he could hardly care about, so Michael just focused on breathing in the sudden surplus of fresh air.

Pain had long ago adjusted his perception. If he hadn’t seen hands taking the rope from his mouth, he wouldn’t have known it was gone. His mouth was numb and even the taste of blood had disappeared.

“Michael,” Gavin breathed one last time, eyes falling to his neck. His chilly hands slid down from Michael’s cheeks, fingers sliding under the snug rope and pulling it looser. Michael sighed his thanks and let his head fall forward, vision dimming.

“No, no, no,” Ray’s voice said harshly into his ear. “Michael, can you…?”

Michael didn’t have the energy to shake his head. He simply allowed Gavin to very carefully slide him out of the closet. Rationally, he knew it should’ve hurt. Blessedly, he didn’t feel a single thing.

“G-Go get a knife,” Gavin stammered to Ray, thumbs stroking Michael’s tear-stained cheeks. “The rope – it’s too tight, I can’t slide it off.”

Ray nodded and staggered to his feet. Michael heard him stumble down the hallway, but his consciousness was fading fast.

“Michael, Michael,” Gavin chanted, holding Michael’s face and tilting it upwards to peer into his eyes. “Can you hear me, love? Are you alright?”

Michael could answer him with nothing but a slow blink. It was a fight to reopen them, and when all he could see was Gavin’s anguished face, he half-wished he hadn’t.

“You’re right – bloody stupid question,” Gavin muttered seemingly to himself. Propping Michael up on his shoulder, he gently parted the red curls, presumably in search of the head wound. Michael knew there was blood smeared all over his face, but it wasn’t the worst of his injuries. Gavin hadn’t even seen the bullet wound yet.

Ray slammed back into the ground next to them with a jolt that probably hurt his knees. There was a large, serrated knife in his hand that Michael could remember cutting bread with the night before.

Without prompting, Ray started to hack away at Michael’s bindings until he was no longer attached to the coat rack. Weight fully supported by Gavin, Michael did nothing to right himself or move; his body was taxed to its limit – perhaps even past that.

“C’mon, Michael,” Gavin tried, pushing gently at the redhead’s shoulder. “We need to go to the police – you need to tell them who – who –”

“He needs to go to the hospital,” Ray said, a sudden urgent clip in his tone causing Michael to pry open his eyes. “Right now. Gavin, help me get him up.”

Gavin hobbled to his feet and heaved Michael up by his arm. For the first time since they’d opened the damned closet door, an expression flickered across Michael’s face: alarm.

Despite being balanced between Gavin and Ray, there were parts of Michael’s body that should not be moving. The pain was nonexistent, but Michael knew he could be doing serious damage by gallivanting around.

Digging his heels into the ground, he parted his lips and wheezed out, “Hurt,” before collapsing between them.

It spooked Ray into bolting down the hallway. Gavin stared after him in confusion until they heard the brunette’s cries for help.

Michael lay on his stomach in the hallway, pressing his cheek into the cool tile as Gavin fretted around nervously behind him. All over his body, his skin stung and ached. Gavin’s hand on his back wasn’t helping.

“Michael, what’s wrong? What hurts?” Gavin’s high-strung voice questioned him.

Michael breathed noisily into the floor, each breath dragging a wheeze from his lungs. He struggled to get a word out, but the sudden realization of permanent damage shocked him into action.

“H-Help,” was all he could manage. He hoped his best friend could understand that what he needed was medical help, sooner rather than later.

The graying edges of his vision were not a good sign, nor was the loss of feeling in his extremities.

“I’m trying, Michael,” Gavin said, accent strong from stress and butchering his words. Hands, chilled and stiff, smoothed down his shoulders, skipped over his sliced-up ribs completely, and slipped under his legs to trail down the front of his jeans. They froze on the wet section of fabric, directly over the bullet. Michael could hear Gavin’s sharp inhale.

“They – they shot you!” he gasped, pulling back his bloody hands as if touching Michael’s bullet wound would cause him personal harm. “Oh my god – they tried to kill you –”

Michael couldn’t reply. His hands curled into fists on the tile as a sharp, shooting pain lanced from his lower rib to his collarbone. The intricate slices and carving that had been delivered to his chest were beginning to burn and scab over, and stretching out the on the floor was pulling on them.

Gavin, in a rare moment of perceptiveness, picked up on Michael’s pained breathing instantly. His hands fluttered over Michael’s head.

“Michael, I – I don’t know how to help you. Tell me how to help you! I don’t know what to do!” Gavin’s voice rose in hysteria, adopting the squawking sort of screech that panic often created. Michael’s head swam, vision blackening.

“H–H–” Michael gasped uselessly, trying to communicate his need for an immediate hospital. He had to blink multiple times before his brain finally realized that his vision had yet to return. His throat clicked with an effortful swallow.

“I don’t know what to do!” was the last thing Michael heard before he faded away.

\---

Geoff was the one to sit in the ambulance with Michael. It would’ve been Gavin, but he was incoherent and dazed. Once the more serious case was checked in, he was to be treated at the hospital for shock.

Looking down at Michael, Geoff wanted to either punch something or turn his stomach inside out.

As the two EMTs chattered back and forth while treating the redhead, Geoff clutched at Michael’s hand like a lifeline. The only solace he had was Michael loosely gripping his back. The quiet gasps and discomforted shifting was hard to watch.

The blood had been wiped from his face. Underneath was not much better: a lot of pale skin and cuts. Thankfully most were superficial and would heal within days. His concussion, however, was severe and dangerous. The EMTs’ obvious unease put Geoff on edge.

“Shot,” Geoff muttered to himself, shaking his head. “ _Shot_.”

“Sir?” the EMT said questioningly, glancing up at him.

“Seeing him like this…” Geoff said with a click in this throat, “I’m scared that whenever I look at him now, all I’m going to see is this.”

“His outlook is hopeful,” the EMT said, confused.

Geoff shook his head, closing his eyes and allowing Michael’s gently gripping hand to ground himself. “Whenever we’re recording – we record videos for the internet – he tends to zone out or focus too hard on something else that he’ll miss one of us talking to him. You can say his name five times and he won’t even notice.”

The EMT nodded along, though she was obviously confused. Geoff could imagine the lunacy vibe he was releasing, but he couldn’t restrain his thoughts.

“But when it comes to the people around him, he’s strangely observant – even more than a normal person. He picks up on shit that bugs me and Gavin whenever we’re in public. We recorded a video in Minecraft once – me ‘n Gav were nervous wrecks, and Michael kept asking what was wrong with us.”

Geoff laughed, a sour, bitter sound. “And just – he watches out for us, in his own way. This just makes me wonder if he tried to protect our home. If – if he cares about us more than himself.”

Geoff glanced up, biting his tongue and wondering if he’d said too much. But the EMT was furrowing her brow, eyes watery. She didn’t acknowledge him, but her hand had wandered to pat Michael’s shoulder.

Geoff cleared his throat, changing gears. “I was in the military,” Geoff said conversationally, stroking his thumb across the soft skin on the back of Michael’s hand. “A journalist, but I still had all the training. They told us what it’s like to get shot, and hell –they told us to expect it.”

He shook his head, eyes watering at the sight of his boyfriend utterly still and deathly pale – living the nightmare Geoff never had to.

“I was never shot,” he continued without looking up. “And after leaving the military, I never thought I’d have to worry about it.” He laughed sourly. “Michael always manages to fucking prove me wrong.”

The EMT had no reply except for a pitying glance. Fitting her fingers snugly under the corner of Michael’s jaw, she counted silently while the seconds ticked by.

Geoff eyed Michael’s chest. What had once been smooth and seamless was now lined with scarlet and blotchy with bruises. The dusting of blue and red over his ribs was most likely the product of being kicked multiple times while he was down.

He suspected the knife wounds on his chest had been afflicted when Michael was unconscious, or close to it. They were delicate and unhesitating, thankfully shallow and scabbed over. There were a few sections where the scabs had been pulled and blood was beading along the skin.

Looking at his boyfriend made Geoff’s throat close up. His shaking hand tightened around Michael’s limp fingers; Michael was no longer moving or making sounds.

“Mr. Jones?” the female EMT said in a sharp voice, leaning over to peer into Michael’s face. She peeled back an eyelid and flashed a light in and out of Michael’s dim, brown eyes.

Geoff stiffened but couldn’t help from saying, “He listens more if you call him Michael.”

The EMT understandably didn’t have time to heed his advice. Calling to her coworker, she said, “He’s lost consciousness.”

Without a word, the driver pressed on the gas so fast that the car lurched forward.

\---

Michael opened his eyes to a wall of sticky notes.

They were vibrant blue, green, and hot pink – colors that couldn’t possibly escape his notice. Each one held a small collection of hand-written words. He blinked at the blurry words. His head was muddled and foggy, but he got the distant feeling that this wasn’t the first time he’d woken up. He squinted at the topmost sticky notes.

_READ THESE!!!! (FAQ)_

_Your name is Michael Jones (j/k we know you know – Gavin thought that would be funny)._

_Where am I: You’re at Seton Northwest Hospital._

_How long have I been here: You’ve been here for six days and awake for three._

_What’s going on: Since waking up, you’ve had short term memory loss from a head injury, but it’s temporary._

_Is everyone okay: We’re all fine._

And then, in permanent marker:

_ You’re going to be okay. _ _-Jack_

Michael rubbed his eyes, faintly wondering if he could get away with falling asleep once more. Something tugged on the crook of his elbow at the movement. Glancing down, he frowned at an IV line connecting him to a bag full of clear liquid.

_Do not pull out your IV, for christ’s sake -Gavin_

Michael grinned and obeyed the Post-It. He reached forward and plucked a few choice notes off the board that had been propped up against his legs and the food tray. Each one held a snippet of advice, signed by each of his boyfriends. Geoff’s were a little harder to decipher, and a lot ranged from a loving, concerned tone to a rather annoyed one, but Michael’s eyes began to water nonetheless.

_You were involved in a robbery. Our shit was stolen, but we got most of it back. -Ray_

_They caught the guys who did it, don’t worry about that. -Gavin_

_Don’t try and talk!! -Ray_

_And don’t take off the bandage around your head, dumbass. -Ray_

_You don’t get any more sick days. Ever. -Geoff_

Michael looked around, wishing to talk to the boys in person, but the hospital room was empty. For spending only six days in it, the room was surprisingly trashed; fast food bags covered the counter, jackets of all sizes were pooled at the bottom of chairs, and hospital trays of smelly food sat in heaps on the floor next to the bed. Michael’s stomach rumbled.

As he stared thoughtfully at a plastic knife on one of the trays, a memory occurred to him. Heartbeat jumping audibly on the machine next to his bed, he fumbled with the back of his gown and pulled it undone.

_Don’t pull down your hospital gown. -Ryan_

His stomach tightened and flipped. Two long, thin strips of red, raw skin traced the crest of his collar bone before dipping down and following the lines of his sternum. From there, each rib had its own cut branching off and fading somewhere near his back. Though it looked agonizing and somewhat unusual, Michael was heavily relieved; after they healed, only thin, white scars would remain, if any. He recalled the wounds being far worse.

At the reveal of what he’d assumed would be his worst injury, Michael began to take inventory.

Rope burns circled his wrists and, if he had to guess, his ankles as well. He shivered at the memory of sitting helplessly in the closet with a noose curled provocatively around his neck.

The skin around his neck was scorching hot to the touch. There was no pain when he laid gentle finger tips on the tender flesh, but the texture was all wrong. What should’ve been smooth and soft was now swollen and rough – almost as if sandpaper had been grinded against the soft part of his throat.

The corners of his mouth were sore and scratchy. Even his lips had suffered damage and were dry, cracked, and split in multiple places.

In his drugged state, Michael couldn’t react to the soft tug of panicked instincts vying for control. Searching for comfort, he raised his eyes to the sticky notes.

_If you have to pee, don’t get out of bed. You have a catheter. –Ray_

_I know it feels weird to piss the bed, but stop trying to get out of bed. -Ray_

_In case you wake up alone, call a nurse. She’ll come get us. -Geoff_

And smaller, underneath Geoff’s messy scrawl was Gavin’s: _We’re probably in the cafeteria because Jack wanted to eat again._

_I’ll bring you some soft foods. -Jack_

_The call button is to your left. -Ryan_

_Please don’t cry. -Ryan_

_If you still want to talk, use the notepad under your pillow. -Geoff_

Michael fished out a large, white blank notepad. Multiple papers had been ripped out already, the remains of which were frayed along the top, but Michael couldn’t remember using it. There was a pen clipped to the top.

Unhooking it, he fought to steady his hand and wrote out a note of his own. Sleep pulled mercilessly at his mind, only seconds from dragging him under. Knowing he didn’t have time to reach for the call button, or even fix his hospital gown, he jotted down his last thoughts before falling asleep with the pen still in his hand.

_I remember what happened. I love you guys. -Michael_

\---

When Michael woke next, the board of sticky notes was gone, but something even better was in its place.

For one, he was back in the master bedroom of his home. For another, Gavin was hovering over him with a hopeful expression.

Anxious, hazel eyes stared into his. Gavin’s face was just inches from Michael’s, their noses almost touching. Gavin was anticipating – something. Michael could tell.

Recognition drew a pleased sigh from Michael’s face as he searched Gav’s eyes with a small smile. Gavin must’ve seen what he was looking for in Michael’s face; his face flushed warm with intense relief and his shoulders shook with the effort of holding himself back from hugging Michael. “Michael!” he yelped, holding the redhead by the cheeks and pressing their lips together in a chaste, _thank-you-for-being-okay_ kiss.

“Ga–” Michael started, trying to play along. After the first syllable, however, a vicious bout of coughing erupted. Gavin backed off but didn’t go very far. He held Michael’s hand and played with his fingers as the fit resided.

“I thought you said you remembered,” Gavin said when Michael finally fell silent, but Michael could tell the Brit knew that something was different this time. “We said not to try and open your big, dumb, fat mouth. Use this.”

He threw the notepad back into Michael’s lap. His note from earlier was still there, but someone had colored in a heart next to Michael’s name.

Picking up the pen, he wrote a message: _How long have I been asleep? Am I still forgetting things?_

“Only a few hours,” Gavin said. “And no, but if you’re wondering why you’re home and not at the hospital, it’s because they released you a bit prematurely. We thought you’d appreciate being back in your own bed.”

_Was I supposed to be released?_

“Of course, we didn’t steal you,” Gavin laughed, tracing Michael’s palm restlessly. “You woke up yesterday and were lucid for the first time apparently. You hadn’t been able to write anything legible since you first woke up, after the small coma.”

_Coma?_

Gavin nodded solemnly. “Pressure on your brain from bleeding,” he said in a low, angry voice. “It was from – from the head injury. It caused anterograde amnesia and disorientation. You’re better now – I can tell. Your eyes are clearer.”

_And that’s why I’m back home?_

“That and they needed the room,” Gavin said, and Michael couldn’t tell if he was joking. “They pumped you full of painkillers and we toted you back home. I doubt you remember, but they said your memory should be fine now.”

Michael nodded, agreeing with the doctors’ sentiment. He remembered waking up alone in the hospital room and writing down a small note to his boys, but he couldn’t recall a car ride home. Choosing to question Gavin more about that later, he wrote something else down.

_Where are the others?_

“What, am I not enough, boi?” Gavin said with a brittle smile. Michael’s heart ached. “I think Geoff and Jack are at the police station again. Ray and Ryan are in the living room.”

_Can I see them, too?_

Gavin’s mouth twitched. “The doctors said not to overload you,” he said in a knowing voice.

_I want to see them._

Gavin didn’t protest further. He didn’t bother to stand. “Ryan! Ray!” Gavin said loudly. It didn’t seem like they would hear from the living room, but the door opened not five seconds later.

Michael’s eyes burned as he raked them up and down. They looked – surprisingly worn. Dammit. He frowned and angrily wrote, _Fuckers. Take care of yourselves_ , before shoving it in their faces.

Ryan was the only one to look sheepish. Ray just shrugged. The brightness in his eyes seemed out of place on such a drawn, tight face. He sat down next to Michael and laid his hand on Michael’s forearm as if he might break the bone. Ryan knelt next to the bed and took out his phone to send a text to Geoff.

“How are you feeling?” Ray asked, voice scratchy.

_My nose is stuffy. Am I seriously still fucking sick?_

Ray snorted at his response. “I was talking about the concussion and bullet wound, but I guess the lousy cold you had is a bigger pain.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. He’d completely forgotten that he’d been shot. An icy shiver streaked up the back of his legs. Fingers trembling, he asked:

_Where was I shot?_

Ray frowned and searched Michael’s face. Then he looked at Ryan. “I guess you didn’t put that on a sticky note?”

Ryan shook his head. He palmed Michael’s shoulder, laying an air kiss on the redhead’s cheek. “The leg. It missed everything important, thank God. Just a flesh wound. You can even walk on it now, if you have the energy to try.”

Gavin and Ray both made noises of protest as Michael immediately started to fling off the covers. “No, no, not yet!” Gavin said hurriedly. “Bloody hell, Ryan, do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“He’s right, he’s right,” Ryan said in a rush, pushing Michael back onto the bed as gently as he could. “Sorry, bad suggestion. I meant you can try when you’ve gotten something to eat and drink.”

Michael couldn’t quite manage a growl, so he wrote, _My throat feels like one of you dickheads channeled Mr. Fantastic and had a good time_.

Gavin snorted with laughter as Ryan answered. “You were actually working your way up to a sore throat before – before that. The – uh – rope crushed your wind pipe slightly. The damage wasn’t too severe and should heal in one to two weeks.”

_I can’t talk for two weeks?!_

“We aren’t sure,” Ryan admitted. “You have a nurse coming to check up on your throat in two days. We’ll see then.”

Michael nodded thoughtfully, chewing on his lower lip. The skin was raw and tender under his teeth, but he couldn’t stop the nervous habit. _We got our shit back?_

“Yeah!” Gavin said happily, gesturing to the bedroom at large. Indeed, there was the TV back on the stand and the Blu-Ray player underneath. “I mean – a lot was broken, but insurance is covering the cost.”

Michael swallowed painfully. _What about hospital bills?_

Ryan’s hand covered his before he could finish the question mark. “Don’t worry about that,” he said with an air of finality. He nudged Michael’s pen out of the way so he couldn’t pursue the troubling topic. “Are you hungry? We have a lot of smoothie recipes that we looked up online for you.”

Michael grinned and nodded. He wrote down a request for a strawberry smoothie and Ryan disappeared into the house. Michael could hear the blender start up.

Arms wound their way around Michael’s shoulders, careful to avoid touching the skin of his neck. Gavin gently pulled him into a much-needed hug. Michael pressed his face into the soft fabric of his shirt, breathing in and savoring the familiar smell of his boy.

They pulled away after a long, calming moment. Gavin respectively ignored the two wet marks on his shoulder and Michael didn’t mock the tremors that he’d felt in Gav’s shoulders. The moment they parted, Ray was snuggling up against Michael’s side and making a home for himself under the blankets.

_Don’t hog the covers_ , Michael wrote. He showed it to Ray with a weak smile.

“I’m not,” Ray said, turning his nose up. “I’m here to guard you while Gavin makes something for dinner.”

Michael looked at Gavin suspiciously. Gavin wasn’t the worst cook in the house, but dinner was usually Geoff’s job.

“Chinese,” Gavin supplied, and Michael nodded. Ray made a soft noise of disgust and burrowed further under the sheets. He pressed his back against Michael’s side but kept his feet off the bed. It didn’t escape Michael’s notice.

As Gavin left the room, Michael wrote: _You don’t need to hang off the bed. I can’t even feel my toes – you can come closer._

Ray gave him a dirty look. “That was an actual fear, you know,” he said. At Michael’s confusion, he clarified: “Paralysis.”

Michael rolled his eyes. _Don’t make me ask for a cuddle_.

Ray grinned at the words and finally shifted to fit snugly into Michael’s side. The warmth he provided was welcomed even against Michael’s numbed skin. Michael had to wriggle down a few inches to place a kiss on the top of Ray’s head, but Ray’s sigh of contentment was worth it.

\---

Michael was roused by the sound of the bedroom door opening.

A hot oven in the shape of a human being was suffocating Michael’s right side. His skin was slick was sweat as he carefully inched away, grimacing as Ray, still sleeping soundly, refused to let go.

Geoff’s high-octave chuckle drew his attention immediately. Jack was placing a carton of Chinese take-out soup next to his bed as Ryan drew the curtains shut. Gavin, already stripped down to his boxers for bed, slid in next to Ray. With a strong glare of _you owe me_ , Gavin peeled Ray’s arms away from Michael and allowed the brunette to re-focus on himself.

Geoff slid the notepad back into Michael’s hands.

“How are you feeling?” he whispered.

Still bleary from sleep, Michael’s handwriting was a little slanted. _Tired. Bedtime?_

Geoff nodded, gazing lovingly at Gavin and Ray, both of whom were now fast asleep. “Everyone’s exhausted,” he admitted softly.

“I’m beat,” Ryan agreed on a yawn as he, too, pulled off his clothes. He climbed into bed and made sure to give Michael the space he didn’t want but needed. “Sorry,” the blond said in response to Michael’s eyeing. “I don’t want to knee you accidentally in my sleep.”

Michael exaggeratedly rolled his eyes at him. The pen and notepad fell slack in his hands as bodies filled the bed, familiar shuffling and quiet chuffs lowering Michael’s heartbeat.

It finally felt right in the house. A tension present when Michael woke had melted away sometime during his nap. The painkillers in his system were drowning him in pleasant drowsiness, but his heart was sharp in his chest as Ryan quietly clenched his hand under the sheets.

It was an unexciting end to a long, stressful week. Michael could only imagine the state the boys had been in when he’d been asleep, but the aftermath was passed out in bed next to him. They looked horrible, with heavy bags under their eyes and scruffy, unshaven faces. Though he wished they’d taken better care of each other in his absence, Michael was selfishly satisfied that he’d been worried after.

He sighed, slow and peaceful. His mind wasn’t up to speed, and he had a feeling that the memories were going to hit him hard when he finally healed. Just the thought of looking at that closet made his skin crawl.

But at that moment, Michael was content to just forget for a little while.

He was nearly asleep when he heard the light scratch of pen on paper. Something was slipped into his palm. He had to hold it an inch from his eyes and read it by the light of the bedside clock.

_I care about you more than I can begin to express. I’d do anything for you. I love you. -Geoff_


End file.
